Two years ago, I posted a picture on my Facebook page—an excerpt from Matthew 17:20:

“If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, nothing will be impossible for you.”

I posted it while clinging to hope during an impending miscarriage, believing I could will a miracle. Until the miscarriage was over, I held onto hope.

Now, here I am again—at His mercy—trying to will a cure for Jackson.

A friend introduced me to “Thy Will” by Hillary Scott, a song written after she suffered a pregnancy loss. It resonates deeply.

As a Christian, I wish I had unwavering faith all the time, but I don’t. I’m flawed, human, and I struggle.

I get angry with God. Sometimes I give Him the silent treatment.
I feel resentful, unheard, ignored.
I want to be in control.

And sometimes, I’m just plain mad.

I know, I know—you aren’t supposed to be mad at God, and if you are, you shouldn’t admit it. But He knows me. He hears me. He sees my broken heart.

He knows I’m scared for Jackson.
For the impact on my daughter.
For my marriage.
For losing our home.

He knows how fiercely I love my children.

So why them?

I may never know the answer, but when I start feeling lost, those words replay in my mind:

“Thy will be done.”

And I remind myself—He is God. I am not.

I don’t get to call the shots in my story, in Jackson’s, or in anyone else’s.

I can pout, stomp, and shout.

But in the end, it doesn’t change anything.

And when my tantrum is over, that truth is still there:

Thy will be done.

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Faith in the Hardest Moments

Some days, I can’t see past the struggles.

I suspect all parents of chronically ill children have those days.

I have my share of moments when I dwell.

When people ask, “How are you?”—I rarely tell the truth.

You put on the brave face, smile, and move forward. Because letting people see how broken you feel is harder than pretending you’re okay.

I think the mustard seed verse speaks to those moments.

Not the moments when life is going perfectly, and faith is as big as a football field.

It’s the low days, when faith feels shaken and small, when self-pity creeps in, when unanswered prayers feel overwhelming.

That’s when I need to remember:

As long as I don’t give up, nothing is impossible.

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I See the Grace

There are nights when I’m so tired.

The CGM alarm goes off.
I jump out of bed like a machine, navigating to Jackson’s crib by memory.
I try to check his sugar in the dark, half-asleep.
I fumble with the test strip, get an error, start over.
All while trying to be a stealth ninja, not waking him up.

This is my normal.

But in the morning, when I drag my tired feet into his room, God’s grace smacks me across the face.

And I see it.

I see the grace in:

• His eyes, full of joy and resilience.
• His hugs, wrapping around me like a lifeline.
• His laughter, echoing through the house.
• The way he smiles at a nurse, even after she’s held him down for another IV.
• The way he makes strangers smile, just by looking at them.

Jackson has taught me so much about life.

His struggles teach lessons to everyone around him.

He may not change the entire world, but he changes the world around him.

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Faith, Even When It’s Small

I know my disagreements with God aren’t over.

This journey is long.

The only certainty is that God is in control.

And on my worst days, when my faith is so small it can hardly be seen, I will keep believing that all things are possible.

And I will remind myself of the beautiful grace He has given me.

Grace I fall short of deserving—but still receive, every single day.